With that he got up and walked away from the table without saying another word. For a few long seconds the only sounds to be heard in the house were heavy, lethargic footsteps as Carl dragged himself upstairs and shut himself away in isolation in his room.
A short while later Michael opened another bottle of wine. He didn’t ask, he just poured Emma another glass. She didn’t resist.
‘Really fucked up there, didn’t I?’ he said quietly.
She nodded.
‘We both did. It’s obvious he’s struggling. I should never have asked him about his little girl.’
Michael immediately became defensive again.
‘Maybe not, but I still think he’s got to talk,’ he explained. ‘Jesus, we can’t move on until we’ve dealt with everything that’s happened. We can’t start to build anything up until we’ve sorted out everything that…’
‘Have you dealt with everything then?’ she asked, cutting across him.
He paused for a moment and then shook his head.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Have you?’
‘I haven’t even started. To be honest I don’t even know where to start.’
‘I think we should all start with what hurts the most. With Carl it’s his daughter. What about you?’
She drank more wine and considered his question.
‘Don’t know really. Everything hurts.’
‘Okay, so when does it get to you the most?’
Again she couldn’t answer.
‘Don’t know. I was thinking about my sister’s kids yesterday and that really bothered me. I didn’t see them that often, but the thought that I might not see them again…’
‘Where did they live?’
‘Overseas. Jackie’s husband got moved to Kuwait with his job for a couple of years. They were due to come back next summer.’
‘They still might.’
‘How do you reckon that then?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘We still don’t know for certain that any other countries have been affected by this, do we?’
‘Not for sure, but…’
‘But what?’
‘But I think we would have heard something by now, don’t you?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Oh, come on, Michael. If there was anyone left we would have heard something. You said as much back in Northwich last week.’
At the mention of the name of the town they’d fled from Michael immediately began to think about the crowd of survivors left behind in the shabby surroundings of the Whitchurch Community Centre. He pictured the faces of Stuart, Ralph, Kate and the others and wondered what had become of them. Fortunately, before he had time to think too much, Emma asked another question.
‘So what about your family then?’
‘What about them?’
‘Who do you miss the most? Did you have a partner.’
Michael took a deep breath, stretched and yawned and then ran his fingers through his hair.
‘I had been seeing a girl called Marie for about six months,’ he began, ‘but I haven’t thought about her at all.’
‘Why not?’
‘We split up three weeks ago.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Not any more. I don’t miss my best friend who she was screwing either. There are plenty of other people I miss more.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as my mum. Last night when I was trying to get to sleep I was thinking about her. You know that feeling you get when you’re just about to go to sleep and you think you can hear a voice or see a face or something?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well I thought I heard my mum last night. I can’t even tell you what it was I thought she’d said. I just heard her for a split second. It was like she was lying next to me.’
‘That was me,’ Emma smiled, trying desperately to make light of a conversation that was becoming increasingly morose.
Michael managed half a smile before returning his attention to his drink. Emma studied him intently. A very private and independent man from day one, she was beginning to see signs that there might be more to him than she first thought. He was blunt, opinionated and occasionally aggressive, but she was beginning to see that despite his seemingly self-centred emotions he was genuinely concerned about Carl’s and her own welfare.
The conversation in the kitchen continued as long as the wine lasted. As time passed by their discussions became less in-depth and focussed and more trivial and trite to the point where, by the early hours of Thursday morning, almost everything they talked about was insignificant and inane.
During the hours they spent together, Emma and Michael learnt about each other’s strengths, weaknesses, hobbies, interests, phobias and (now pointless) aspirations and ambitions. They talked about their favourite books, films, records, televisions programmes, concerts, musicians, actors, foods, politicians, authors and comedians. They learnt about other redundant aspects of each other’s lives – their religious beliefs, their political views and their moral standings.
They finally made their way up to the bedroom they innocently shared just before two in the morning.
29
Carl spent many hours during the days which followed shut away in isolation in his attic bedroom. There hadn’t seemed to be much point in coming out. What was there to do? Sure he could talk to Michael and Emma, but why bother? Every conversation, no matter how it began, seemed to end with the three of them each drowning privately in complete and absolute negativity. They either ended up talking about how little they had left or how much they had lost. It hurt Carl too much to talk anymore. He decided that it was easiest for all concerned if he just didn’t bother.
His bedroom was wide and spacious, spanning virtually the entire length of the house. Being high up it was relatively warm and comfortable and, most importantly to Carl, it was isolated. There was no need for anyone to come upstairs for any reason other than to see him. And as no-one had any need to see him, no-one came upstairs at all. That was the way he was beginning to like it.
Although twee and old-fashioned, the bedroom seemed to have been recently used. When they’d first arrived there Carl had decided that it had been used as a temporary base for a visiting grandchild, perhaps sent to the countryside to spend his or her final summer holiday on the farm. The furniture was sparse – a single bed, a double wardrobe, a chest of drawers, two brightly painted stools, a bookcase and a battered but comfortable sofa. On top of the wardrobe Carl had found a wooden box containing a collection of toys, some old books and a pair of binoculars which, once he’d cleaned the lenses, he had used to watch the world outside his window slowly rot and decay.
It was approaching half-past three in the afternoon and he could hear Emma and Michael working outside in the yard. He felt absolutely no guilt at not being out there with them because he couldn’t see any point in anything that they were doing. He was happy to sit back and do nothing. Okay it was boring, but what else was there to do? Nothing seemed to be worth any risk or effort.
He didn’t even know for sure what day it was.
He sat on a stool near to the window and, for a couple of seconds, tried to work out whether it was Friday, Saturday or Sunday. Back when life had been ‘normal’ and he’d been at work, each day had its own ‘feel’ and atmosphere – the week would begin with the dragging purgatory that was Monday morning and then slowly improve as Friday evening and the weekend approached. None of that seemed to matter anymore. Each new day was the same as the last. Yesterday was as frustrating, dull, grey and pointless as tomorrow would surely also be.
Today – whatever day it was – had been fairly warm and clear for the time of year. Perched on one of the wooden stools with the binoculars held up to his eyes he had been able to see for miles across rolling fields. The world was so still and free of distractions that, even from a distance, he could make out minute detail such as the dramatic tower and steeple of a far-off church. As the sun began to slowly fade below the horizon he watched as the colour faded from the steeple and it became an inky dark shape silhouetted against the light purples and blues of the early evening sky. Strange, he thought, how it all looked so calm and peaceful. Underneath the cover of apparent normality the world was filled with death, disease and destruction. Even the greenest and purest, seemingly untouched fields were breeding grounds filled with fermenting disease and devastation.